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Footsteps follow behind me, into the second bedroom. This room has the better view of the backyard, which is a square of grass and a stone patio, but my bedroom is slightly bigger.
“I use this as an office, sometimes. So it didn’t make sense to put a bed in here…” I clear my throat and glance at the sleeper sofa that I unfolded and made up with fresh sheets this morning. It’s a queen, but it seems smaller in Oliver’s presence. This whole room does, actually. “I won’t be offended if you want to stay at a hotel.”
“This is great, Hannah. Thank you.”
I wish he’d stop using my name. Something about the way Oliver says it unsettles me. Makes my heart race and stomach twist.
I take a step toward the door, striving for nonchalance as I shuffle past him. “Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen. Bathroom is down the hall if you need it.”
And it’s been meticulously scrubbed and emptied. I’m going to have to haul the toiletries that usually cover the counter down the hallway in a caddy, like I did in college.
Once I’m in the kitchen—alone—I exhale a sigh of relief. We’re supposed to show up at my parents’ house in an hour and a half. If I budget forty-five minutes for what is usually a half-hour drive, that still leaves forty-five minutes.
Less than an hour suddenly sounds like an endless stretch of time.
I fill the tea kettle and set it on the stove, simply for something to do. I already did all the dishes and wiped the counters, so I rearrange the limes and then lean against the counter and stare into space.
“How long have you lived here?”
I jump before glancing over a shoulder at Oliver, who’s standing in the doorway.
His grin is brief, but it appears. “Forgot I was here?”
I rub my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. “No.”
But I was expecting him to remain in his room. To work or to pretend to be busy or something that didn’t involve standing in my kitchen a couple of feet away.
“So?” He walks closer, and I resist the urge to take a step back.
“Three years.”
Oliver nods, glancing around the room again. Even though I’m not much of a chef, I do love my kitchen. The wallpaper is a cheerful pattern of lemons and bees, and I spent an afternoon agonizing over different slabs of marble for the countertops.
The kettle begins to whistle on the stove. I shut the burner off and grab a mug. “Do you want any tea?”
Instead of declining, he nods. “Sure.” Then he rounds the island and takes a seat on one of the stools, obviously planning to stay.
Maybe I should stop making assumptions about what Oliver will do or say. I might feel less off-kilter when he chooses the opposite.
I pour two mugs of peppermint tea, not bothering to ask him what kind he wants since it’s all I have.
I set the steaming cup down in front of him. “My family thinks we dated for months before we got married.”
“How’d they get that idea?” Instead of mad, he sounds amused. Another surprise.
I rephrase. “Itoldmy family we dated for months before we got married.”
He nods, and that’s it. His whole reaction. “Tell me about your family.”
I blow on my tea. “My older brother is Eddie. He’s an anesthesiologist. His wife April is expecting their first baby in a month.”
“How did they meet?”
“Uh, they were high school sweethearts. Met in elementary school, started dating freshman year, and that was it.”
“You’re a cynic, though?”
“Aren’t you?”
